


Old Habits

by beckzorz (heckofabecca)



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Avenger Reader (Marvel), Dom/sub Undertones, Explicit Language, F/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, POV Second Person, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Red Room (Marvel), Smut, the sexual tension is strong with this one...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2020-01-11 02:53:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18421329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heckofabecca/pseuds/beckzorz
Summary: Training with the Avengers isn’t supposed to be like the Red Room, but for you and Bucky, the past is hard to shake.





	Old Habits

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a drabble that exploded thanks to some prods XD Hope you enjoy!

“Again.”

“No. Again.”

“Again.”

You yank off a sweaty glove and hurl it at Bucky, panting. Enough is enough. “No! Not again! It’s been _hours_ —”

Before you can finish, Bucky rushes you, his face transformed from its usual impassive façade to a violent snarl. You leap out of the way, sweeping a leg behind you to trip him up.

He’s too quick.

Bucky grabs your ankle and yanks hard, aborting your roll and nearly pulling your leg out of its socket. You twist onto your back as he clamps a hand on your waist, hard fingers digging into your side. You’ve still got two hands free, and a leg besides, but this is the Winter Soldier after all. In seconds you’re pinned to the floor. Bucky’s elbow digs into your throat until you see stars.

Only then does he pull away.

By the time your vision clears, his face is back to its customary blankness. The only hint of his moments-ago ferocity is the tic in his jaw.

“Again,” he orders.

You push yourself up on your elbows and glare up at him. Every muscle burns, and you can feel a bruise forming on your throat already. You don’t move.

“No.”

His jaw clenches. He takes one step closer until he’s nearly straddling you, so tall he might as well be a mountain.

“You need to keep going,” he says.

“I’m done.”

You sit the rest of the way up and peel off your other glove. You try and look nonchalant, but you’re on full alert. Would he attack you like this? You can’t be sure.

He doesn’t attack you. He just drops to his knees and grabs hold of your chin, jerking your head up until you meet his eye.

“That wasn’t good enough!” he shouts.

“Don’t yell at me like I’m a child,” you retort. You will _not_ let him drive you to shouting back. You press your shoe hard against his groin, pushing him back. “Just because you did when I _was_ doesn’t mean you can do it now.”

Bucky’s dark look washes away with sudden shock. His blue eyes go comically wide.

“Oh,” he says. “ _Oh_.”

He scuttles backwards, his pinched expression so full of regret that you lean forward to stare.

“What?” you say.

Bucky runs his hands over his face, pushing his loose hair back. It falls right back into place.

“Old habits die hard,” he says, not meeting your gaze. “Got caught up in—I’m sorry.”

“You should be.” You stand with a wince; the hours of grueling training have taken their toll. You stretch your arms over your head and bend to press your hands to the ground. You straighten again. “No one here will kill me if you don’t push me past the point of reason. This isn’t—“

“I know,” Bucky interrupts. “I know.” A brief smile flickers on his face. “This isn’t there. No children. No handcuffing to the bed, either.”

“Speak for yourself,” you say with a snort.

Bucky’s eyes light on yours with sudden, piercing interest. “Oh?” he drawls.

You freeze, caught in his intense gaze. A blush rises to your face. Bucky’s eyes are darker than before—damn it, this _isn’t_ supposed to be the Red Room, but here you are sneaking glances at the soldier, wondering what it would be like to have him cuffed to your bed.

What would it be like to have the power over him for once?

You swallow.

“Mind out of the gutter, Barnes,” you say, as lightly as you can.

Bucky smiles wistfully up at you. “If you insist.”

You force your eyes away from curve of his mouth and gather up your gloves. It’s wrong, to think of your old teacher like this… but how can you resist?

Even after he’s literally driven the air from your lungs, you’re drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

Still, no call for him to know it. After everything you’ve been through, you know how to deny yourself anything.

Even something as dazzling as Bucky Barnes.

“I do.”

 

—

 

You tilt your head back and study yourself in your bathroom mirror. Concealer is a wonderful invention. The blooming bruise on your throat is totally hidden. Nothing out of the ordinary, just the smooth skin of your neck.

You press your hand against your right side. The finger-shaped bruises _there_ are hidden by your shirt.

But they still hurt to the touch.

It hurts to talk, too. You’re perfectly capable of working through pain, but that sure as hell doesn’t make it fun.

Fortunately, you can get away with minimal talking for the rest of the day. Once you grab lunch and a granola bar for later, you can sequester yourself back in your room and lounge in peace and quiet.

You pass by the main mess and wince; it’s far too crowded for your liking. Instead, you go farther afield to the lounge kitchenette.

Natasha glances over her shoulder as she dumps fruit into the blender.

“Hi, Natasha.” You squeeze past her to raid the pantry.

“How was training?”

You shrug. You stick a wrapped granola bar between your teeth and grab the bread. From the fridge, you snag your sandwich fillings. Natasha wordlessly passes you a plate and knife. You hum in thanks and spread everything out on the table.

“Hm.”

You glance over your shoulder, eyebrows raised. Natasha’s looking at you with a furrow in her brow.

“What?” you ask.

“Oh, nothing.”

You shrug and turn back, popping the bread clip off. Natasha sets her smoothie down beside you and steps out of your line of sight.

A hand clamps around your throat.

Red floods your vision.

In a heartbeat, you’ve flipped Natasha over your shoulder, sending her crashing onto the table. The bread lands with a muffled thump somewhere behind you. Natasha blinks up at you as you collapse into the closest chair, clutching your neck gingerly.

She’s not even winded. You scowl.

“Dammit, Nat, what the hell?” you rasp.

“What happened?” she asks, sitting up.

You look away, heat rising to your face. Will Natasha be as scolding as Bucky has been?

“Bucky had me training for hours,” you whisper. Anything louder hurts. “I told him I’d had enough—”

“Let me guess,” she says drily. “He rushed you.”

You shrink in your chair and nod. “I guess he forgot we weren’t, you know. _There_.”

“Yeah, he gets that way sometimes. Not saying I don’t, but…” Natasha shrugs and swings her legs back and forth. “He’s more intense than the rest of us put together. Except for Tony when he’s in one of his manic episodes.”

A smile flits across your face. No lie there.

“I’ll have a word with him,” Natasha says.

“Oh, please don’t,” you blurt. You wince and try not to massage your throat—that would only make things worse. Quietly, you add, “He knows he got caught up, and then he’d know we were talking about it, and I just don’t want to have to deal with that next time.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “Next time? Why don’t you just train with someone else?”

You open your mouth, then close it. Natasha takes a long sip of her smoothie.

Why _don’t_ you train with someone else? No one else, not even Natasha, goes to Bucky’s lengths. And there are other large men who can pose a reasonable threat. Steve, maybe? No, he gets too defensive about Bucky. Sam might do.

Whomever you pick, a change in partners might be just the thing to clear Bucky from your mind. You’d told him to get his mind out of the gutter, but there are moments where you can barely keep _your_ head in the game. Bucky and his tight workout gear—not to mention that sinful mouth—draw you in no matter how much you tell yourself no. A little distance will do a world of good.

Bucky’s a teammate. He’s your old teacher, your old tormentor, your fellow sufferer. He’s one of the few people alive who could truly relate to your past. But in his eyes, you’re just the kid who still needs breaking in.

That settles it. You can’t keep sighing over a man who only wants to lecture you. No matter how much he makes you weak, Bucky Barnes isn’t for you.

“Thank you,” you say at last. “That is the reasonable thing to do.”

Natasha smirks. “Of course it is,” she murmurs. She stands and raps her knuckles on the table. “Later.”

 

—

 

A week later, you’re in the ring with Sam, sweat trickling down your face. Sam has a hard punch, and even without wings he’s tough to hit.

In the ring, anyway. If you weren’t playing by arbitrary rules, you’d’ve flattened him a half-dozen times already.

Oh well. It’s good practice.

Sam aims a few more hits in your direction before stepping back with a fresh smile.

“Sup, Barnes?” he says.

You look over your shoulder, gloves still up. Bucky’s leaning against the ropes, his eyes flicking between you and Sam. His sweats ride low on his hips below his fitted t-shirt.

You look away.

“You still goin’ at it?” Bucky asks.

You glance at Sam, unsure if Bucky’s talking to him or you.

“We can wrap it up if you need the ring,” Sam says. You give Sam a panicked look, and he blinks. “Well, five more minutes?”

“Uh, sure.”

You watch surreptitiously as Bucky wanders off, peeking over his shoulder at you with a frown. His hands are stuffed in his pockets, his shirt pulled tight across his shoulders and back.

“Wonder who he’s sparring with,” Sam muses.

You shake yourself out of it. Enough of Bucky. “C’mon,” you urge Sam. “One more round.”

Sam puts up his gloves with an indulgent grin.

You barrel towards him, eyes on the prize. The rush of adrenaline sends all thoughts of Bucky to the wind.

Sam’s defeat comes swift. A surge of power runs through you as you hold him down an extra second with a foot on his knee, but at his urging you help him to his feet with a grunt.

“You’ve got moves, girl,” Sam says, grinning good-naturedly. “Thanks for going easy on me.”

You giggle. “Sure thing, Sam.”

Your smile holds as you amble to the locker room, gloves swinging from your hand. When you turn the corner to your row, you freeze.

Bucky is sitting hunched over on the bench in front of your locker, elbows on his knees and one hand in his tousled hair. The soft lighting in the corner engulfs him in a gentle halo. He looks like a goddamn angel, sweats and all.

No, _no_.

You grit your teeth. Whatever he looks like, he’s a man who can’t control himself who’s hell-bent on controlling _you_.

You step back, but your sneaker squeaks on the tiles. Bucky’s head snaps in your direction. For a moment, his face is soft, with wide eyes and barely parted lips and a hint of a blush in his cheeks. Of course, his expression hardens as he pops to his feet.

“Why are you avoiding me?” he demands.

“Uh—”

Bucky steps towards you; you step back instinctively, dropping your gloves and settling into a fighting stance as your heart hammers in your chest. He stops short.

“Fuck,” he mutters. He collapses back onto the bench and rubs a hand down the back of his neck, chin tucked against his chest. “Forget it.”

You blink. “I’m not avoiding you,” you tell him.

“I said forget it,” he snaps. He jumps up and stalks away, passing so close to you that you can feel the air moving in his wake.

You spin to stare after him. His stiff shoulders fill you with sudden rage.

“Fine!”

You storm past where Bucky had been and open your locker with so much force that it bounces back closed, nearly taking your fingers off in the process. Teeth bared, you grab a change of clothes and slam your locker shut.

You make for the showers. Shirt and leggings off first, then you shimmy out of your sports bra and underwear. The water is a relief, and in here behind the locked door, you can finally relax.

Relax? No, you can’t relax. All you can think of is Bucky.

What the hell is his problem?! Why does he turn into the fucking Winter Soldier every time he talks to you? Why can’t he just deal with you like a normal person? Like Natasha, or Clint, or whoever the hell he wants. It’s not like you’re _actually_ avoiding him.

You aren’t. Well…

You worry the inside of your lip as you run your soapy hands down your arms.

_Are_ you avoiding him?

Sure, you stopped training with him, but it’s not like you run out of the room when he comes in. You’re just keeping a healthy distance, the better to contain him—and yourself. It’s better you’ve switched to working with Sam. Better for everyone. Clearly, your presence alone triggers Bucky. The man can’t even ask you a simple question without putting you on the defensive. And there’s no point in hovering by him, panting after him like a lovestruck child. You’ve done that before, back… back before. It never got you anywhere, except stuck in a chokehold from losing focus.

You run your fingernails lightly along your neck. The phantom memory of Bucky’s hand on your throat sends a sudden chill through you.

No, not a chill. Just a shudder, one that settles right where you wish it wouldn’t. Your hand dips between your legs, and you lean heavily against the wall as want pools in your belly.

Maybe you _have_ been avoiding Bucky. Under the circumstances, you’re pretty sure it’s for the best.

Thank god you don’t have any missions planned together anytime soon.

 

—

 

Two days later, Steve summons you to the conference room.

You sit on the edge of the table across from him and bounce your foot as you wait for him to get started. He pushes a file over to you. You thumb through it.

“Something’s come up in Ukraine,” Steve says. “We need Ukrainian speakers.”

“This looks simple,” you tell him. “I can take this. Don’t drag Natasha into it; she’s almost had a full two weeks on-site.”

Steve raises his eyebrows. “I wasn’t planning on pulling Natasha. She’s earned some rest. I’m sending Bucky with you.”

“What?!” Your stomach drops. “Steve, I—”

“I don’t know what happened between you two,” he says, standing slowly. He leans on the table, fixing you with a sharp stare. “But fix it. You leave tomorrow, five a.m. _Sharp_.”

You sputter as he sweeps out of the room.

Great. Just great. You groan and kick the closest chair over. A mission with Bucky? _Alone_ _?_ How the hell are you supposed to manage? It’s not _your_ fault he gets lost in the past when you’re around. Of course, it’s not his fault you dissolve when _he’s_ around, either.

If only he’d stick to his instincts and let himself be soft around you.

You squeeze your eyes shut and try not to imagine it.

You don’t do a very good job.

 

—

 

The flight, at least, is bearable. Mostly because Bucky spends the entire time piloting in the cockpit while you review the file in the cabin. There’s really only a few meters between you, but the cockpit door does an excellent job at letting you forget how close he is.

However distracted you let yourself get on base, this is different. This is a mission, with strategizing and information gathering and subterfuge. You can handle yourself on a mission like this, even with the Winter Soldier.

You’ve done it before; you can do it again.

You glance at the cockpit door, fiddling with the corners of the papers in your lap. You can do this. You can stay professional, keep your cool, not let his inevitable reversion get to you.

There’s no other choice.

Hours pass before the intercom buzzes to life. You stiffen in your seat and clutch the file tight as you wait for Bucky’s voice.

“Fifteen minutes to landing. Pack it up.”

He kills the intercom, and you let out a slow breath. Your knuckles are white; you open your hands with wide eyes. All that for just the sound of his voice?

No. You shake your head hard. No more.

You have to get a handle yourself. There’s no other choice.

 

—

 

Phase one goes off without a hitch.

Steve had written up a suggested plan in the mission brief. Pretend to be tourists, scope out suspected hubs of criminal activity, listen closely for any hints. All that sounded great. The fake dating part? Not so much. You know exactly how that would have gone. Fake relationship, all-too-realistic break-up scene. No thanks.

So you changed the plan. Splitting up, you told Bucky, meant you could cover more ground. Hear more conversations.

He didn’t argue at the time—and to be fair, you’d only pulled that out right before your arrival—but now that you’re on the road to the motel, the tension is as thick as cheddar cheese. Bucky’s hands are clenched on the steering wheel of the mid-grade rental car. He’s got gloves on, but they’re pulled tight over his knuckles. The leather creaks against the wheel whenever he shifts.

You only glance occasionally at him; you spend most of the ride typing up notes and staring out the window, parsing the various tidbits you’d gleaned from the last hours of spying.

Neither of you say a word. Fifty-six minutes of silence.

You check into the motel, letting Bucky sit in the car. The old-fashioned key with its numbered keychain jingles as you amble back to the car.

Packing light is a specialty; both of you just have one large backpack each. You grab yours from the trunk and make your way to the room as Bucky locks the car up, clearing any evidence away.

You unlock the door and push it open.

You freeze in the doorway.

There’s only one bed.

Bucky’s footsteps behind you rattle in your skull, and you hurry to dump your bag on the side of the bed closer to the door. It’s cold, despite the heat being set to seventy; you turn it up to seventy-five. You pray Bucky doesn’t notice your hands are shaking.

You rummage through your bag for your pajamas, every hair standing on end as Bucky shuts and triple-locks the door. He goes straight into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

You run your hands down your face and struggle to contain a groan.

One bed. One bed. Who the fuck decided this? Is this Steve’s misguided attempt to make you and Bucky get along? Doesn’t he know what the problem is?

The toilet flushes, and you hurry to change into your silk romper. Off with the civvie clothes of the mission, on with your romper. God, why is it so cold?

When Bucky comes out, you glance his way, then automatically look back, heat rising in your cheeks. Bucky’s wearing a loose t-shirt over a pair of boxer briefs, his metal arm gleaming in the dim light. His hair is tucked behind his ears, neat for almost the first time this whole trip. Despite the looseness of his dark shirt, you can still easily make out the shape of his pecs. You don’t dare let your gaze go any lower.

Oops.

Your thighs clench together. Oh god. You’re _fucked_.

Bucky drops his bag on the floor and pulls out one of his many guns. He settles in the chair by the little round table and glances up at you as he dismantles the pistol for cleaning. His eyes widen briefly as he looks you over. He shifts in his seat, brows drawn low.

“What?” he asks gruffly.

Your cheeks burn. “Nothing!”

You run into the bathroom, desperate for air. It’s barely over fifty degrees and still the air is too thick. You showered this morning, but you’ve still got the urge to scrub yourself clean. Thoughts of Bucky rattle around your head, teasing and torturous. You press the heels of your hands to your eyes. Enough!

You brush your teeth furiously, hard enough to make your gums bleed. You cup water in the palm of your hands and swish it around in your mouth, wincing at the sting. If only washing out your mouth could clear your thoughts as well!

By the time you emerge, you’re certain Bucky’s going to make some comment about girls and bathrooms. But he doesn’t. All he does is turn his head a few inches in your direction, then look resolutely back at his disassembled rifle. The cleaning cloth practically squeaks from his furious rubbing.

God, his hands move fast…

You swallow, a rush of heat flooding your face as you studiously ready your bag for the night—if something happens during the wee hours, you’ll be ready to book it in seconds. All the while, you can’t help sneaking glances at the chair, and at Bucky’s hands. He reassembles his rifle in seconds, then he wipes it down one more time with a gentleness that makes you shiver.

His hands have never been gentle on you, but he sure knows how to use them.

On his guns, at least. Would he be able to use them gently on you, if you told him how? Could he keep them still, if you asked?

_Ugh._

You slip under the covers and swear under your breath. The sheets are cold to the touch. You huddle in a fetal position on the edge of the bed, holding yourself tight and facing away from Bucky. You shut off the light on your side, leaving only a weak yellow lamp for Bucky’s work.

Bucky is quiet, perhaps too much so. Is he still cleaning guns? Is he done? Is he just sitting there, waiting for you to fall asleep? You run your hands along your bare legs, trying to infuse some warmth. For all the blushing you’ve been doing, most of your body is still cold.

Best not to think how warm you’d be if Bucky joined you.

You bite your lip to contain a snort. If Bucky joins you, he’s more likely to kick you off the bed than offer any real warmth. His track record even in just the last couple weeks involves nearly strangling you, for heaven’s sake. Not to mention all those times in the Red Room…

A shudder runs through you, more pronounced than your shivering.

“Something wrong?”

You freeze. “No, nothing,” you say quickly. You pull the blankets tighter over your shoulders, your fingers digging into your arms.

“Riiight.” Bucky cracks his knuckles, then his neck. “When exactly are we going to talk?”

Terror passes through you, and your answer comes faster than reason can quash it. “Tomorrow. Good night.”

You pull the blankets clean over your head.

“Fucking hell,” Bucky mutters, almost too quiet for you to hear.

But you do hear it. Tears prick at your eyes, but you don’t answer. What right does he have to complain? He didn’t even _try_ to talk in the car, and once you got here, he just locked himself in the bathroom.

But you’re no better. You _should_ be debriefing with Bucky, planning with Bucky, talking to Bucky… Instead you’re curled up like a fucking baby, teary and angry and eyes squeezed so tightly shut that your eyelids hurt. The thought of talking to him with all those _thoughts_ swirling around in your head is enough to turn your stomach. How can you look him in the face when all you want to do is mark him as yours?

If only Steve could see you now.

Bucky’s moving around again. You stiffen, the better to hear him; he slides a gun under the bed, another in a nearby drawer.

Then he lifts the blanket, exposing your back to the cold, and slides in.

You let out your breath slowly as he settles on his side of the bed. Bucky’s not close enough for you to feel his body heat yet, but from all your training you know he runs warm. In the meantime, you press the blanket down for better insulation. Bucky shifts seconds later, ruining your careful tuck.

What a waste.

Intermittent shivering aside, you lie as still as you can, curled up with your back to Bucky. Deep, shallow breaths do nothing to relieve your tension. Every few seconds, Bucky turns, or shifts, or tosses. You try to keep track of which direction he’s facing without looking at him, but in minutes you can’t imagine. He’s moving too damn much.

All you want to do is sleep, and by sleeping stop thinking about _him_.

“For fuck’s sake, Bucky, stop twitching!”

Bucky sits up with a huff, the blankets pulled tight over your shoulders yanked down with him. “I haven’t had to share a bed in months, and you think I can just lie still?”

“I’m managing,” you say icily. You tug the blankets back into place, suppressing a shiver. The heat in the motel is _awful_ ; you’d set it to seventy-five an hour ago, but the room is barely at sixty. In a better world, you might have shared Bucky’s body heat, but you’re on separate edges of the bed, as much space between you as possible.

“You’re shivering,” Bucky says. “That’s not managing.”

You groan. “My shivering is not your problem.”

“Of course it’s my problem,” he argues. “I don’t know why you’re being such a—” He cuts himself off. “Of course it’s my problem,” he repeats slowly. “We’re teammates. If you get sick…”

_Seriously?_

Enough is enough.

You sit up, arms crossed tight over your chest, and glare at him.

“First of all? It’s not cold enough to get sick in here. We both know that. From _experience_. Second, being teammates doesn’t make us friends. We’re here to complete a mission, not babysit each other. We’re adults. And third, you know damn well why I’m being such a bitch.”

Bucky’s eyes widen through your little tirade, but narrow as you finish. He licks his lips, his eyes darting across your face. “Do tell.”

“You’re a fucking control freak!” you snap. “This isn’t _there_. You don’t get to tell me what to do all the time. You’re not my boss, and you sure as hell aren’t my handler. I’m _done_ letting you dominate me. I’m done roleplaying our past. I’m done! So lie down, be still, and shut the fuck u—”

Bucky’s lips stop your mouth.

You freeze.

His mismatched hands cradle your face, one warm flesh and one cool metal. His lips are soft and slightly chapped against yours. You can’t move, but your heart hammers in your chest. What is happening?

Bucky pulls back after what feels like an eternity, or maybe a single second. His dark eyes flit across your face. You just stare.

“I never could do that,” he whispers. “There, I mean. But god, I’ve wanted to do that for—”

You barrel into him, pinning him to the bed. You hold his wrists down over his head, your knee pressed against his groin. Not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to notice that _he’s_ hard. His eyes are almost black, just a thin ring of their customary lightness still visible in the dimness of the room. The muscles of his right arm are tense. He could throw you, from this position, but he lays quite still beneath you.

His face is inches from yours. Both of you are panting; his warm breath fans your face. The smell of toothpaste doesn’t mask his particular intoxicating scent. Goosebumps break out along your bare arms and legs.

You crouch over him, your torso stretched above his. Bucky licks his lips again. He tilts his head up, baring his throat. His eyes are heavy with desire.

“It’s only fair,” he says huskily.

Your eyes drag down across his flushed face, his lips, his stubbled chin, the line of his throat, and finally settle on the rapidly beating pulse point just above his collarbone. You duck your head, your arms stretched a little more to accommodate the movement, and press an open-mouthed kiss to that pulse point. His heartbeat thuds against your lips.

Then you sink your teeth against his collarbone, and Bucky _jerks_ beneath you. His chest brushes yours—when did your breasts get so tender?—before he collapses back down, his breathing even heavier than before.

You pull back and stare down at him. Heat dances through you, between you; Bucky’s grinding himself on your thigh, just enough to notice. His arms are still splayed over his head, his hands caught in yours. You push his hands into the mattress and slowly move back until you’re kneeling between his knees.

He leaves his hands where they are.

You take the opportunity to look him over. Your teeth have left a mark on his collarbone. His loose t-shirt is too dark for you to make out the shape of his chest, but the tent in his boxer briefs casts a hefty shadow. You run your hand up his thigh, the dusty hairs there standing on end as your fingernails scrape against his skin. You stop at the hem of his briefs, your thumb curling against his inner thigh and just brushing against him.

His cock twitches, and he shudders.

“You tease,” he rasps.

“Alright, alright.” You can’t help the smile on your face. “Well, tell me then. What do you want?”

“I want _you_.”

“You’ll have to be a little more specific than that…” You push his shirt up over his abs, kissing them as you go.

Bucky grabs your hips and pulls you up his body; you lose your balance and collapse on his chest just as he takes your face in his hands and kisses you again. This time, you’re not frozen. This time, you’re burning up. The feel of him under you is everything you’ve ever wanted. In this position, his cock is nestled between your legs, and you rock against it with no mind to what Bucky might think.

Then his hands slip around to squeeze your ass, and you remember that his hands were supposed to be over his head. You bite his lip and slam his hands back into place.

Bucky ducks his head and latches his mouth onto your breast. Your silk romper is no protection from the wet heat of his mouth, and your elbows buckle as he sucks your soul out through your nipple.

“ _Fuuuck_ , Bucky—”

He pulls back with a wicked grin and licks his lips. “Sorry, baby. Couldn’t resist.”

You laugh breathlessly. He’s too adorable, too fuckable—do you even care about control anymore? Every second the power changes. If things keep going the direction they’re headed, both of you are going to win no matter what.

What’s a little democracy among friends?

“Alright, fine.” You sit up on his thighs, threading your fingers in his, and kiss his knuckles. “No point in resisting anymore.”

Bucky sits up too, his cock pressed tight between you. He worms his hands free and loops his arms around you. He doesn’t grab your ass again, just holds you against him and gazes into your eyes.

“You mean that?” he murmurs.

You raise your eyebrows. “Sure.” You drag your core against his cock, a shudder running through you. “I think we’ve gone past holding it in.”

“Well,” he says. He peppers kisses across your face, prompting a giggle, and finally slides a hand down to squeeze your ass. The other dips between your legs from the front, and the brush of his hand against your clothed clit sends starbursts rushing through you. “Here’s to not denying ourselves.”

“Ch-cheers,” you stammer.

Bucky turns and lays you back on the bed. You look up at him, breathless, as he whips his shirt over his head. He has to tilt his hips to free his cock from his boxer briefs, but they go flying off the bed in turn.

God, what a man.

His chest is smooth and pale in the dim light, his sculpted muscles leading a natural trail down to his Adonis belt and the thin line of hair leading down to his jutting cock. Fuck. He’s big; his glans is almost purple, the tip leaking precum.

Bucky chuckles at your blatant staring. “Enjoying the view?” he teases.

“I’ll say,” you answer breathlessly. You press your thighs together, desperate for friction after that single touch.

Bucky notices. Of course he does.

“Let me,” he says huskily. He peels the straps of your romper down your shoulders and arms, peeling the fabric away from your tender breasts—you suck in a breath as the cool air hits your skin—and past your hips with your underwear. There’s a wet spot in the crotch, of course there is; you hadn’t noticed before, but you’re positively dripping with desire. You kick your clothes away. Bucky worms his way between your legs until your thighs are hooked over his. You grab hold of the sheets with a moan as Bucky kneads your breasts. His right hand skates down your belly.

When he finally dips his fingers inside you, you cry out and buck your hips into his touch. He brings his fingers to his lips and hums as he tastes you. Then his hand is back between your shaking legs, sending fresh lances of pleasure through you. His thumb circles your clit as two fingers tease your entrance. Your toes curl and your hands ache from clutching the sheets, but god, you can’t let go. The wet sounds of his fingers thrusting into you are pornographic.

“Mm, so wet, baby. Is all that for me?” he murmurs.

You let out a breathy moan, unable to form words. Your eyes flutter shut as his thumb traces patterns on your clit and his fingers curl inside you, all while his metal hand plays with your breasts.

When his fingers finally find your g-spot, you see white. Your back arches right off the bed as your limbs seize up; a wordless cry leaves you as shudders rack your body. All you can feel are Bucky’s hands on you, in you, his mouth suddenly back on your breast.

When your orgasm finally passes, you realize Bucky has pulled away. He’s lying next to you, his cock pressed innocently against your hip as he wipes your damp brow.

Of course, there’s nothing innocent about the way he’s sucking his wet fingers. When he wipes them on his bare skin, you pull him down for a brief, lazy kiss.

“There we go,” Bucky says. His eyes are still dark, but there’s a gentleness to his expression that fills you with unexpected warmth.

Was the room cold before? You can’t tell anymore.

“Think you’re up for more?” Bucky asks.

You reach over and take his hard cock in hand; he hisses at the sudden contact. “ _You’re_ certainly up for more,” you tell him, and he laughs breathlessly and kisses you again.

“You minx.”

You squeeze him, and he crawls over you until his cock is nudging your entrance. He pauses suddenly and pulls a few inches back.

“What?” you ask, annoyed.

“Um, what about protection?” he asks hesitantly. The blush on his cheeks isn’t the flush of desire. It’s cute.

Also entirely unnecessary.

“I’m clean, you’re clean, and we both know I can’t get pregnant,” you remind him. His eyes flash with sudden memory. You sigh and kiss his cheek. Maybe he had forgotten—but it doesn’t matter. Not now, when he’s inches from screwing you into the bed. “Now fuck me already, yeah?”

“Yes, _ma’am_.”

You hitch your hips as he aligns himself, propped up by his elbows curled under your arms. You reach down to help him find the right angle, then wrap your arms around his waist and press your hands against the small of his back.

Both of you gasp when he finally pushes in. Your eyes slide shut, and Bucky’s head falls onto your shoulder as he rests there, only the first few inches in. It’s tight, and after your orgasm you’re extra sensitive. You can feel when he twitches inside you. You can feel every millimeter, every bump and ridge, as he slowly sinks the rest of the way in.

“Fuuuuck,” he groans. He brushes sloppy kisses along your shoulder until he’s sucking a mark into the same pulse point you’d kissed on him before. “Fucking perfect.”

You squeeze your walls around him, absurdly pleased when he hisses in pleasure. Damn right you’re fucking perfect. You were trained to be perfect at this, among other things. But hearing it from _him_ , with his voice so damn wrecked, is a million times better than the stilted approval from the rest of them back at the Red Room.

He’d never given you words of approval before, but now…

Hearing him sing your praises is a literal fantasy.

He pulls out, then slowly pushes back in. His hair tickles your skin; his lips are still on your neck, his chest against yours. It’s all so good, too good. You spread your legs wider, digging your heels into the mattress as you lift your hips to meet his on the third thrust. You turn your head and kiss the side of his head, the shell of his ear.

“Fuck me,” you whisper as he pulls out, leaving only the tip inside. “I want—”

Bucky buries himself inside you so fast you cry out in shock. He sets a furious pace, pulling back enough to stare down at you as he breathes harshly, the air whistling through his teeth. His hips snap into yours. You buck up against him as best you can, but he’s so unrelenting you can barely keep up. All you can do is let him hammer you into the creaking bed. You reach up and grab the headboard, holding it still and anchoring yourself.

He grabs one of your legs and hooks it over his waist, opening you even more to him. Your mouth falls open. Now, every thrust hits your g-spot, sending a steady stream of sparks through you. Your arms tremble from the strain of containing yourself. You’re awash in feeling, in heat; your painfully hard nipples are burning from the friction of his chest, and there’s the throbbing radiating from your clit, and, and, and…

Your second orgasm comes without clear warning, when Bucky hitches your leg higher and pushes in just a little deeper. This time, your cries are soundless, and your eyes squeeze shut as you let the sensations crash through you like tsunami waves.

Through it, Bucky keeps pounding into you, bottoming out every time. He slows as you come back to yourself, and finally stills long enough to kiss you senseless all over again.

“You sure know how to wear a girl out,” you mumble against his lips.

He chuckles, low and filthy, and pulls out of you. Cool air tickles you as he moves away; you feel empty without Bucky’s cock in you. You whine in disappointment, but then he flips you onto your front and pulls your hips off the bed. He grabs your pillow and stuffs it under you.

“If you weren’t so darn worn out, I’d let you ride me,” he says. He squeezes your ass, spreading you open for his eyes. “ Let you hold me down… But you’ll have to make do with this.” He pulls one arm back, trapping you in place. Your cheek is pressed against the rough sheets. You clench your walls, desperate for some relief.

He guides himself back inside you, and oh god, it’s even better than before. The new angle lets him get even deeper; he hits every spot. Soon, he’s snapping his hips so hard into yours that you’re slipping up the bed, losing height as he flattens you into the mattress. Your arm burns from his hold, and dimly you realize you couldn’t get out of his grasp if you tried.

You whimper at the thought, a fresh wave of want pooling at your core. Your nipples are throbbing in time with your rapid heartbeat; Bucky’s free hand digs into your hip. You know he’ll leave bruises, but this time all the realization does is spur you to push back against him as best you can, moaning.

“God, Bucky, more, more, c’mon!”

Bucky growls. He lets go of your arm and pulls you up by the base of your neck until your back is against his chest. He slams up into you, his right hand coming around to squeeze your breast and his metal left hand snaking across your belly to flick your clit with the speed of a machine. Your head falls back onto his shoulder. Your eyes are squeezed shut, your keening cry unending. You grab your left breast and tweak your nipple in tandem with Bucky at your other breast; your right hand joins Bucky’s left at the joining of your bodies, your fingers forming a V around the base of his cock as he pulls out and pulls you down on him. You can feel your wetness coating his length. God, he’s got you right where he wants you—no, you’ve got him where you want him…

Tears prick at your eyes as tension coils in you so tight that you’re desperate for release, but Bucky stills his hand on your clit at the last second.

“Stay with me, baby, I’m almost there, hold on, a’most,” he rambles. His rhythm falters as his cock swells impossibly harder inside you.

Your legs are jelly, but he’s more than strong enough to move you as he wills. Your walls clamp tight around him, your hand reaches lower to cup his balls, and with a shout he slams you down on him one last time, his metal thumb flicking your clit with abandon as his cock twitches inside you.

You see stars.

All the tension building releases in an earth-shattering explosion. Waves of pleasure pass through you; you quake in Bucky’s arms, and he holds you tight as he cums inside you. You hear yourself babbling his name, swearing, crying out—you’re a mess, you’re wrecked, you’re buried in his arms and he’s buried in you, and oh god, it’s everything you ever dreamed of.

Bucky lifts you off him. You topple forward, still wrapped in the aftershocks. He falls to his side beside you and wraps you in his arms as you slowly ease into stillness. His stubble scratches against your shoulder as he kisses the skin there.

Eventually, you feel recovered enough to speak, but words fail you. You’ve just had the best sex of your life with the man of your daydreams—and actual dreams, to be honest—but you’re at a loss for words. You don’t need to pump him for information. You’re not about to _thank_ him.

What else is there to say?

“That was fuckin’ incredible,” Bucky mumbles. He rolls you onto your back and kisses the edge of your mouth.

You smile weakly and thread a hand into his hair. His words are all you need. “Yeah,” you tell him. “It was.”

“Next time I wanna watch your pretty tits bouncing,” he says, tweaking a nipple between his fingers.

You burst out laughing and shove his hand away; after all that, you’re still too sensitive to enjoy his teasing touch. “What?!”

“Hey,” he says, holding his hands up defensively, “you’re the one who told me to be more specific.”

You shake your head incredulously as you hobble to the bathroom. “Alright, alright…”

Once you’ve used the bathroom and cleaned yourself off with a damp washcloth, you crawl back into bed. The heat has finally kicked in; it’s pleasantly warm now, but not too hot to keep you from snuggling into Bucky’s open arms.

“So?” he asks.

“So what?”

“Next time…”

You huff tiredly into his neck, but a smile curves your lips as you recall how this all began. One stray comment about handcuffs… Maybe it all went sideways for a while there, but god, what a beautiful resolution.

“Sure. You can watch my tits bounce all you want. But you’ve got to keep your hands where I put them.” You catch his hands in yours and hold them together against your back. “Think you can submit to that?”

Bucky groans, but it’s a good kind of groan. The kind of groan that’s anticipating, not dreading, what’s to come. “For you, I’d submit to just about anything.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think :3


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